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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK, 
BY  THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH.  WITH 
DECORATIONS  BY  W.  S.  HADAWAY. 


Copyright,  1865,  and  1873,  by  Ticknor  and  Fields, 
and  James  R.  Osgood  and  Company.  Copyright, 
1890,  and  1893,  by  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich.  Copy 
right,  1896,  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company. 
All  rights  reserved. 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL  BOOK. 


FRIAR  JEROME'S  BEAUTIFUL 
BOOK.  A.  D.  1200. 


"When  I  am  dead,"  quoth  Friar  Je 


rome, 


'Surely,  I  think  my  soul  will  go 


Shuddering    through    the   darkened 


spheres, 


Down  to  eternal  fires  below  1 


I  shall  not  dare  from  that  dread  place 


To  lift  mine  eyes  to  Jesus'  face, 


f? 


I 


ft  or  Mary's,  as  she  sits  adored 


At  the  feet  of  Christ  the  Lord. 


Alas  I  December 's  all  too  brief 


For  me  to  hope  to  wipe  away 


The  memory  of  my  sinful  May  I" 


s? 


And  Friar  Jerome  was  full  of  grief 


That  April  evening,  as  he  lay 


On  the  straw  pallet  in  his  cell. 


He  scarcely  heard  the  curfew-bell 


Calling  the  brotherhood  to  prayer ; 


r  at  he  arose,  for  't  was  his  care 


Nightly  to  feed  the  hungry  poor 


That  crowded  to  the  Convent  door. 


IS  choicest  duty  it  had  been : 


But  this  one  night  it  weighed  him 


' '  What  work  for  an  immortal  soul,  [  down. 


To  feed  and  clothe  some  lazy  clown ! 


Is  there  no  action  worth  my  mood, 


No  deed  of  daring,  high  and  pure, 


That  shall,  when  I  am  dead,  endure, 


A  well-spring  of  perpetual  good?" 


ND  straight  he  thought  of  those 


great  tomes  [boast — 


With    clamps   of   gold — the    Convent's 


How  they  endured,  while  kings  and  realms 


91657* 


Past  into  darkness  and  were  lost  ; 


How  they  had  stood  from  age  to  age, 


Clad  in  their  yellow  vellum-mail, 


'Gainst  which  the  Paynim's  godless  rage, 


The  Vandal's  fire,  could  naught  avail : 


*P .  jugh  heathen  sword-blows  fell  like  hail, 


Though  cities  ran  with  Christian  blood, 


Imperishable  they  had  stood  1 


They  did  not  seem  like  books  to  him, 


But  Heroes,  Martyrs,  Saints — themselves 


The  things  they  told  of,  not  mere  books 


Ranged  grimly  on  the  oaken  shelves. 


O  those  dim  alcoves,  far  withdrawn, 


He  turned  with  measured  steps  and 


Trimming  his  lantern  as  he  went ;    [slow, 


And  there,  among  the  shadows,  bent 


Above  one  ponderous  folio, 


With  whose  miraculous  text  were  blent 


Seraphic  faces :  Angels,  crowned 


With  rings  of  melting  amethyst ; 


Mute,  patient  Martyrs,  cruelly  bound 


To  blazing  fagots ;  here  and  there, 


Some  bold,  serene  Evangelist, 


Or  Mary  in  her  sunny  hair ; 


And  here  and  there  from  out  the  words 


A  brilliant  tropic  bird  took  flight ; 


Ar  u  through  the  margins  many  a  vine 


Went  wandering — roses,  red  and  white, 


Tulip,  wind-flower,  and  columbine 


Blossomed.    To  his  believing  mind 


These  things  were  real,  and  the  wind, 


Blown  through  the  mullioned  window,  took 


Scent  from  the  lilies  in  the  book. 


ANTA  Maria!"  cried  Friar  Jerome, 
"Whatever  man  illumined  this, 


Though  he  were  steeped  heart-deep  in  sin, 


Was  worthy  of  unending  bliss, 


And  no  doubt  hath  it  1  Ah !  dear  Lord, 


Might  I  so  beautify  Thy  Wordl 


What  sacristan,  the  convents  through, 


Transcribes  with  such  precision?  who 


Does  such  initials  as  I  do? 


Lo !  I  will  gird  me  to  this  work, 


And  save  me,  ere  the  one  chance  slips. 


On  smooth,  clean  parchment  I  '11  engross 


The  Prophet's  fell  Apocalypse ; 


And  as  I  write  from  day  to  day, 


Pe  .jhance  my  sins  will  pass  away." 


O  Friar  Jerome  began  his  Book. 


From  break  of  dawn  till  curfew-chime 


He  bent  above  the  lengthening  page, 


Like  some  rapt  poet  o'er  his  rhyme. 


He  scarcely  paused  to  tell  his  beads, 


Except  at  night ;  and  then  he  lay 


And  tost,  unrestful,  on  the  straw, 


Impatient  for  the  coming  day — 


Working  like  one  who  feels,  perchance, 


That,  ere  the  longed-for  goal  be  won, 


Ere  Beauty  bare  her  perfect  breast, 


Black  Death  may  pluck  him  from  the  sun. 


At  intervals  the  busy  brook, 


Turning  the  mill-wheel,  caught  his  ear ; 


And  through  the  grating  of  the  cell 


He  saw  the  honeysuckles  peer, 


And  knew  'twas  summer,  that  the  sheep 


In  fragrant  pastures  lay  asleep, 


And  felt  that,  somehow,  God  was  near. 


In  his  green  pulpit  on  the  elm, 


The  robin,  abbot  of  that  wood, 


Held  forth  by  times ;  and  Friar  Jerome 


Listened,  and  smiled,  and  understood. 


UI 


HILE  summer  wrapt  the  blissful 


'What  joy  it  was  to  labor  so,  (land 


To  see  the  long-tressed  Angels  grow 


Beneath  the  cunning  of  his  hand, 


Vignette  and  tail-piece  subtly  wrought ! 


And  little  recked  he  of  the  poor 


That  missed  him  at  the  Convent  door  ; 


Or,  thinking  of  them,  put  the  thought 


Aside.    "I  feed  the  souls  of  men 


Henceforth,  and  not  their  bodies!" — yet 


Their  sharp,  pinched  features,  now  and  then, 


Stole  in  between  him  and  his  Book, 


And  filled  him  with  a  vague  regret 


urromr 


OW  on  that  region  fell  a  blight : 
The  corn  grew  cankered  in  its  sheath 
And  from  the  verdurous  uplands  rolled 


A  sultry  vapor  fraught  with  death — 


A  poisonous  mist,  that,  like  a  pall, 


Hung  black  and  stagnant  over  all. 


Then  came  the  sickness — the  malign, 


Green-spotted  terror  called  the  Pest, 


That  took  the  light  from  loving  eyes, 


And  made  the  young  bride's  gentle  breast 


A  fatal  pillow.    Ah  I  the  woe, 


The  crime,  the  madness  that  befell  I 


In  one  short  night  that  vale  became 


More  foul  than  Dante's  inmost  hell. 


Men  curst  their  wives ;  and  mothers  left 


Their  nursing  babes  alone  to  die, 


And  wantoned,  singing,  through  the  streets, 


With  shameless  brow  and  frenzied  eye ; 


And  senseless  clowns,  not  fearing  God — 


Such  power  the  spotted  fever  had — 


Razed  Cragwood  Castle  on  the  hill, 


Pillaged  the  wine-bins,  and  went  mad. 


ifriar  urroinrs 


And  evermore  that  dreadful  pall 


Of  mist  hung  stagnant  over  all : 


By  day,  a  sickly  light  broke  through 


The  heated  fog,  on  town  and  field ; 


By  night,  the  moon,  in  anger,  turned 


Against  the  earth  its  mottled  shield. 


HEN  from  the  Convent,  two  and  two, 


The  Prior  chanting  at  their  head, 


The  monks  went  forth  to  shrive  the  sick, 


And  give  the  hungry  grave  its  dead — 


Only  Jerome,  he  went  not  forth, 


But  hiding  in  his  dusty  nook, 


"Let  come  what  will,  I  must  illume 


The  last  ten  pages  of  my  Book !" 


He  drew  his  stool  before  the  desk, 


And  sat  him  down,  distraught  and  wan, 


To  paint  his  daring  masterpiece, 


The  stately  figure  of  Saint  John. 


He  sketched  the  head  with  pious  care, 


Laid  in  the  tint,  when,  powers  of  Grace ! 


He  found  a  grinning  Death's-head  there, 


teinar  arrow 


And  not  the  grand  Apostle's  face  ! 


HEN  up  he  rose  with  one  long  cry  : 


"'Tis  Satan's  self  does  this,"  cried 


"Because  I  shut  and  barred  my  heart   [ he 


When  Thou  didst  loudest  call  to  me  1 


O  Lord,  Thou  know'st  the  thoughts  of  men, 


Thou  know'st  that  I  did  yearn  to  make 


Thy  Word  more  lovely  to  the  eyes 


Of  sinful  souls,  for  Christ  his  sake ! 


Nathless,  I  leave  the  task  undone : 


I  give  up  all  to  follow  Thee — 


Even  like  him  who  gave  his  nets 


To  winds  and  waves  by  Galilee!" 


HIGH  said,  he  closed  the  precious 


Book 


In  silence,  with  a  reverent  hand ; 


And  drawing  his  cowl  about  his  face 


Went  forth  into  the  Stricken  Land. 


And  there  was  joy  in  heaven  that  day — 


More  joy  o'er  this  forlorn  old  friar 


CD 


Than  over  fifty  sinless  men 


Who  never  struggled  with  desire ! 


HATdeedshedid  inthatdark  town 


What  hearts  he  soothed  with  an 


guish  torn, 


What  weary  ways  of  woe  he  trod, 


Are  written  in  the  Book  of  God, 


And  shall  be  read  at  Judgment  Morn. 


The  weeks  crept  on,  when,  one  still  day, 


God's  awful  presence  filled  the  sky, 


And  that  black  vapor  floated  by, 


And  lo !  the  sickness  past  away. 


With  silvery  clang,  by  thorpe  and  town, 


The  bells  made  merry  in  their  spires : 


O  God !  to  think  the  Pest  is  flown ! 


Men  kissed  each  other  on  the  street, 


And  music  piped  to  dancing  feet 


The  livelong  night,  by  roaring  fires  I 


HEN  Friar  Jerome,  a  wasted  shape— 


For  he  had  taken  the  Plague  at  last 


BTiarUFromrs 


Rose  up,  and  through  the  happy  town, 


And  through  the  wintry  woodlands,  past 


Into  the  Convent.    What  a  gloom 


Sat  brooding  in  each  desolate  room ! 


What  silence  in  the  corridor ! 


For  of  that  long,  innumerous  train 


Which  issued  forth  a  month  before 


Scarce  twenty  had  come  back  again  I 


OUNTING  his  rosary  step  by  step, 


With  a  forlorn  and  vacant  air, 


Like  some  unshriven  churchyard  thing, 


The  Friar  crawled  up  the  mouldy  stair 


To  his  damp  cell,  that  he  might  look 


Once  more  on  his  beloved  Book. 


ND  there  it  lay  upon  the  stand, 


Open ! — he  had  not  left  it  so. 


He  grasped  it,  with  a  cry ;  for,  lo ! 


He  saw  that  some  angelic  hand, 


While  he  was  gone,  had  finished  it  I 


There  't  was  complete,  as  he  had  planned ; 


There,  at  the  end,  stood  FINIS, 


And  gilded  as  no  man  could  do — 


Not  even  that  pious  anchoret, 


Bilfrid,  the  wonderful,  nor  yet 


The  miniatore  Ethelwold, 


Nor  Durham's  Bishop,  who  of  old 


(England   still   hoards   the   priceless 


Did  the  Four  Gospels  all  in  gold. 


And  Friar  Jerome  nor  spoke  nor  stirred, 


But,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  that  word, 


He  passed  from  sin  and  want  and  scorn; 


And  suddenly  the  chapel-bells 


Rang  in  the  holy  Christmas-Morn  I 


•W-N  THOSE  WILD  WARS  WHICH 
I  RACKED  THE  LAND  ||  SINCE 
J^THEN,  AND  KINGDOMS  RENT  IN 
TWAIN,  ||  THE  FRIAR'S  BEAUTIFUL 
BOOK  WAS  LOST-  U  THAT  MIRACLE 
OF  HAND  AND  BRAIN:||  YET,  THOUGH 
ITS  LEAVES  WERE  TORN  AND  TOST, 
||  THE  VOLUME  WAS  NOT  WRIT  IN 
VAIN! 


PUBLISHED  BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN 
AND  COMPANY,  BOSTON  AND  NEW 
YORK,  THE  RIVERSIDE  PRESS,  CAM 
BRIDGE.  1896. 


.... 


This  book  is  QJJE  on  the  last 
date  sttwdjped  below 


date  stomped 
f^FPlO 

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